Rewrite This Tragedy
by ericajanebarry
Summary: In marriage, intimacy heals. Richobel modern AU incorporating the death of Matthew Crawley and Isobel's involvement in the lives of Ethel Parks and her son. First installment in the modern retirement AU. *Now rated M.*
1. All that we love the most

**A/N: And now for something _completely_ different. This is the first chapter of a modern Richobel AU that has been floating around in my head for several months now. As much as my heart beats for period-set Richobel, I find I cannot write it lately without a great deal of pain for reasons I think a couple of you know and understand. I have been admonished that I mustn't apologize for the way I write and so I will not, but suffice it to say I have been struggling.**

 **And so, this. Inspired by canon, particularly the death of Matthew and the Ethel Parks storyline. Inspiration also comes from other sources, such as House, MD and Dr. Lisa Cuddy's "Joy" arc. My mind has always drawn parallels between Cuddy and Isobel Crawley in certain ways, supposing Isobel existed in modern times. They are different women, but they are both brilliant, strong and medically-minded.**

 **My writing of Richobel fic has always been about giving them a better story. We're all acquainted with Julian Fellowes' version of events. I cannot accept it. There's a song with which I've been familiar for many years by Sara Groves entitled "Rewrite This Tragedy," and it includes the lyric "[W]e know how this ends/We know there's a better story." As I was thinking about what to call this piece and its chapters, that song came to mind, because isn't that the essence of Richobel? We _know_ there's a better story than the one they were given.**

 **While this piece does not begin on a happy note, it will get there. I've been watching a lot of Penelope Wilton (I know, I know ... who'd have thought, right?!) and she seems to do so well what most actors cannot in that she tells so much of the story without words, and that even the darkest of her characters is imbued with some deep-seated sense of joy or appreciation of where she is despite circumstance or ... something. It's rather intangible, but it's wholly Dame Penelope. And so I hope to impart that herein.**

 **This is just one fragment of a torrent of writing for both Richobel _and_ Chelsie that I hope to release this week. As ever, your support of my writing is so very much appreciated. There are a couple of you out there without whose cheerleading I'd have given this up a thousand times over by now. **

**xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 **Sometimes it's hard to tell what to keep and what to kill  
What of this makes us who we are?  
All that we love the most, all that we cannot let go  
How much of change can we survive?**

 **\- Sara Groves, "Rewrite This Tragedy"**

 **oOoOo**

She drives home through a haze of tears, startled once by the blaring of a horn behind her. The traffic light has gone green, but so caught up in thought is she that she misses it. The impatient clamour brings her back to the present and somehow before she knows what has happened she finds her car in the drive, fingers removing the key from the ignition and fumbling for the house key.

Once inside she throws her bag down on the counter, tossing her jacket haphazardly on the floor. She goes to the kitchen cupboard, dry-swallowing two aspirin between heaving gulps of air, her chest aching. She holds onto the countertop as if her life depends upon it.

 _Cold_. She is so cold.

She makes her way to the bedroom, kicks off her shoes and crawls beneath the covers. She gasps. Shivers. Waits for sleep to claim her, praying that she'll wake up and discover it's all been a terrible dream.

It is surreal already. She recalls it as if watching from outside her body.

 **oOo**

 _The anesthesiologist nodding a greeting to her, their eyes meeting briefly as he stepped to the side and she took his place. Her mouth forming words, saying things she cannot distinguish. Explaining the procedure to the woman, her patient, as the screen went up. Announcing the incisions as she made each one._

 _The tiny boy, his perfectly rounded head. His lusty cries of protest, screaming like mad at having been released against his will from the warm, dark haven that had been his home. And she, finding herself talking to him rather than her patient._

" _It's all right, love. You'll be warm again soon."_

 _Dark blue eyes opening for the very first time, locking upon hers. An impossibly small fist closing around her finger. Her heart lurching into her throat. Time standing still._

 _A hand at her elbow, a voice in her ear. "Doctor Crawley."_

 _Turning. Her gaze locking upon the neonatologist's. More blue, nearly blinding her, boring into the deepest reaches of her soul. Both of them looking at the babe in her arms and then into one another's eyes again, conversing wordlessly._

You've got to hand him off. **She** is your patient.

I can't do it. She's refused to see him at all. He'll become a ward of the foster care system. A number. And he's not … he's **not!**

Your responsibility is to the patient right in front of you. It'll all be over soon.

But _he_ is her **son!**

And he'll be raised in a loving home with every advantage. He will be fine. Give him over. See to your patient.

 _Numb hands relinquishing the tiny boy to him. Turning away, back to her patient, reporting with cool, clinical detachment that her baby is well, that everything has gone just as it should. Years of experience taking over as she sutures. Handing the patient off to the nurses to be taken to recovery. Stepping out of the operating theater. Yanking off her gloves and mask, tossing them into the hazardous materials receptacle. Nodding to nurses and doctors as she passes, a smile plastered on her face._

 _More numbness. Charting the final details of her morning, saying hello and goodbye to the doctor who is relieving her. Waving to the doorman on her way to the car park. Collapsing into the driver's seat, crumbling against the steering wheel, tears finally free to fall. Making it home by a sheer act of providence._

 **oOo**

She is still cold, shivering beneath layer upon layer of blankets when he arrives. Only the top of her head is visible, so high has she pulled up the covers. Silently he strips down to his shorts and climbs in beside her without disturbing the cocoon she has made for herself.

Wordlessly he gathers her against him, lifting her chin so that their eyes meet.

"Dear God, Isobel," he says, making room for his wife to tuck her face in against his neck. "Breathe, darling. It's all over. Breathe." He traces the length of her spine through the layers of clothing she wears - her scrubs and two cardigans - wanting his touch to soothe her but wondering whether she can feel it at all. It seems counterintuitive when he feels the coldness of her cheek, but he sits her up and begins stripping off the layers until she remains in only her bra and panties. Skin on skin, he draws the covers back over them both as his arms enfold her.

He traces circles over her back as he holds her, pressing kisses to her hairline. Slowly he feels her begin to relax in his arms, the sobs subsiding. He draws back a little to look at her and she gasps as their eyes meet.

That blue again, just like in the operating theater. So blue it nearly blinds her, strips her bare, makes her honest. "I should have recused myself. It was too soon for a case like that." She clings to him, soothed by the beating of his heart beneath her palm.

"It would have been just as hard no matter when it had happened," he replies, running a hand through her hair.

She tries to speak but her voice is ragged, her throat raw. It comes out as a strangled whisper. "She gave up her _son_ , Richard! I will never hold mine again … and she gave hers up!"

He sits up against the headboard, gathering her against his chest. She breathes him in as he rocks her back and forth, back and forth, silently assuring her that he is and will be here.

* * *

 ***"The patient right in front of you" - this is borrowed from a conversation between President Josiah ("Jed") Bartlet and First Lady Dr. Abigail ("Abbey") Bartlet in the West Wing episode _Swiss Diplomacy_.**


	2. How we came to play these roles

**A/N: Chapter two, heavy on the backstory. Rating will increase next chapter.**

 **Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, reblogging on Tumblr and just generally hanging with me!**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 **Tonight I forgot a line in the play that you and I  
** **Have been rehearsing since the day we met  
** **It made me put down my script, made me look around a bit  
** **And wonder how we came to play these roles**

 **Sara Groves, "Rewrite This Tragedy"**

 **oOoOoOo**

She practices in a small group whose policy it is that expectant mothers rotate through all of the doctors, as it is never a guarantee that one's practitioner of choice will be on call when delivery is imminent. They do, however, permit each woman to state whether she has a preference to be delivered by a particular doctor, honoring those wishes whenever possible.

 **oOo**

 _When Ethel Parks had come on as a new OB patient, Isobel had been intrigued by the young woman's story. A cleaning woman in the employ of a prominent and well-to-do family, she had made an ill-advised choice, going to bed with a soldier on leave from Afghanistan. She'd been sacked by the family employing her when it was discovered that the liaison had taken place under their roof. But that was not the end of the story, for the union had left her pregnant, and when she attempted to contact the soldier through his superior officers she was notified that he'd been killed in a helicopter crash. Unemployed, pregnant and alone, Ethel had tugged at Isobel's heartstrings. On her initial visit she had been unsure whether she desired to continue the pregnancy. While she'd been a lifelong proponent of the right of women to choose, Isobel found herself in the unique position of also having lost her only son in an horrific motor vehicle accident nearly a year prior. She waited to hear from Ethel on the subject, but when the younger woman expressed a desire to carry to term and then put the child up for adoption, Isobel became her greatest advocate._ _If Ethel was willing to carry the child, to give birth, then perhaps she would come around to the notion of parenting._

 _In the process of attempting to locate the father of Ethel's unborn child, the parents of the soldier, Mr. and Mrs. Bryant, had been made aware of the situation and had expressed a potential interest in adopting the child after it was born. Isobel had connected Ethel with a social worker and an adoption agency and had herself arranged the meeting between Ethel and the Bryants. Mr. Bryant was initially quite belligerent with Ethel, stating that if his son had fathered a child he would have told them. He offered Ethel money if she would go away quietly so as not to tarnish the reputation of his late son. Ethel refused the money and parted ways with the Bryants, beginning to explore other options for the adoption of her child, but she was contacted by them through the adoption agency several months later asking for a second meeting and stating that they had come to believe her and that they wanted to raise their grandchild._

 _Isobel's position required her to keep her personal feelings about the situation under wraps, but she secretly prayed that Ethel would decide to raise her son herself. Having always lived comfortably, there were certain hardships that Isobel could not comprehend despite her great compassion for others, and Richard had helped her to understand how very different her own circumstances were from Ethel's. With her lack of education and marketable skills, Ethel would always struggle to provide for her child, and absent the support of a husband or parents she was likely to turn to prostitution in order to scrape together a living. That was no kind of life for her, and certainly not for an innocent child. He was right, of course. He was so very seldom wrong._

 _And so Isobel had worked to bring her heart around until the words she said in support of Ethel's decision matched her feelings on the subject. And she'd almost got there. Almost … until Ethel had requested that Isobel be the one to deliver her child. Ethel had sustained some previous trauma that would necessitate a Cesarean section, and as the senior physician in the group it was a surgery Isobel had performed hundreds of times over the course of her career. What was more, Ethel had no support system in place, and so while every fiber of her being screamed at her_ (No, I cannot do this! I cannot be party to this woman's giving up her child) _, Isobel had assented._

 _No amount of mental preparation, of discussing the situation with Richard or of sitting in on meetings between Ethel, the Bryants, the social worker and adoption agency personnel had prepared her heart for the reality of the day when at last it came. Isobel awoke in a cold sweat that morning, rehearsing in her head the words she would say and the ones she knew she would hear, countless reminders of the fact that Ethel did not want to know whether her baby was a boy or a girl, that she did not wish to hold or even to see the child._

 _She had lingered in Richard's arms until the last possible second, silently clinging to him as if in so doing she could crawl inside of him and thereby cease to exist. He had risen from the bed at last, pulling her with him, knowing that she would not move unless he did._

" _You know that Matthew would want you to help her. I knew enough of him to know he had as much of a heart for the disadvantaged as you have. I will be right there, Isobel. And I promise that later I'll make you forget, my love."_

 _And so she had left the solace of their flat, and as she stepped out into the frigid morning air she shed her identity as Mrs. Isobel Clarkson, donning the professional armor of Isobel Crawley, MD, Chief of Obstetrics. Upon arrival at the hospital she rounded on her patients, delighting in watching new mothers bond with their infants and signing discharge orders for three of them. She kept busy charting and chatting to her colleagues until the very last second._

 _Richard had preceded her into the surgical suite to begin scrubbing in. As Chief of Neonatology he would assume care for Ethel's baby following delivery before handing the child off to the social worker. They had a moment alone together, and the irony of the situation lightened the mood momentarily. He was already surgically sterile. He could not touch her, nor she, him. Behind their surgical masks their eyes smiled at one another._

" _Oi," he said, because it never failed to elicit a giggle from her. "I'll be right beside you, Captain. You've got this." Lowering his voice, he whispered, "I love you, Bel. See you in there, eh?" And he bumped her elbow with his before moving toward the exit door._

" _Richard," she called after him, her stomach flipping when he turned his piercing gaze upon her once more. "See you in there, Major. I love you, too."_

 _She had him to thank, for his presence in the operating theater was all that had kept her from bolting at the last minute, from forcing Ethel to look at the son she had delivered (Damn her oath straight to hell - how could any mother pass up the opportunity to hold her child?). His forthright, all-knowing eyes had anchored her, keeping her in the moment. The only thing that had enabled her to hand the baby off was the knowledge that she was placing the child in_ his _hands._

 _She had cleared her schedule for the remainder of the day following Ethel's delivery. He would spend the morning at the hospital and the early afternoon seeing patients in his office. She would need some time to herself, he knew. But not too much time, or she would begin to wallow in grief and self-doubt. So when his two o'clock telephoned to cancel at quarter past one he locked his office door and notified his secretary that he was leaving for the day._

 _He had found her just as she was beginning to teeter on the edge of sanity. He'd known she would retreat to their bed, for it was exactly what she had done in the days following Matthew's death. The love between them had been such a fledgling thing then, barely discovered when the unthinkable had happened, but there was no place else she'd have dreamt of running than into his arms._


	3. We know there's a better story

**A/N: Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews ... to which I am in the process of replying. My apologies ... it has been quite a week. Please do keep them coming.**

 ***** Rating jumps to M, folks. NSFW. *****

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 _He had found her just as she was beginning to teeter on the edge of sanity. He had known she would retreat to their bed, for it was exactly what she had done in the days following Matthew's death. The love between them had been such a fledgling thing then, barely discovered when the unthinkable had happened, but there was no place else she'd have dreamt of running than into his arms._

 **oOoOo**

They are here now, he and she, locked away from the world in the haven of their bedroom, of their bed, and the worst is over. He repeats this sentiment to her.

"It's over, Isobel. It's over. You've done it. I'm so proud of you, my darling. You're stronger than anyone I've ever known."

She closes her eyes against the rush of emotion brought on by his words. Taking his hand, she presses a kiss to the center of his palm before bringing it to rest over her heart. To her it feels as though it only continues to beat right now because he holds it in his hand. When her eyes open it is to the sight of his locked on her, and wordlessly her heart screams the thought to which she cannot give voice.

 _I wish that baby had been Matthew, Richard. I wish to God he had been mine._

"I love you," she says at last, because it is all that she knows. He is her certainty, the rock to which she clings. "I love you, Richard. _I love you._ " _That_ is her oath, it is her vow. It is the ultimate truth and she is ragged and raw and vulnerable as she murmurs it against his ear, into his soul. Her eyes are red and swollen and in that moment she is more beautiful to him than she has ever been.

He kisses her gently, tasting the salt from her tears, his tongue darting out to drink it all in. It is her essence. He is in her blood now, and she in his. It calls up an image in his mind, that of her standing before him at the altar on their wedding day eighteen months ago. He recalls looking into her eyes as the vicar read from Mark's gospel:

 _For this reason, a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh._

He looks into her eyes now and sees the need she cannot speak.

 _Take my sorrow. Give me your joy._

"Isobel," he whispers, her name a caress. He swipes at her tears with the pad of his thumb and then raises the digit to his lips, kissing it. Next he presses it to hers and she gasps.

 _Take my sorrow._

"Cold, Richard," she murmurs. "Cold, so cold. I can't get warm."

"Lie still, sweetheart. I'll be back in a tick." Stepping into the en suite, he turns the shower on as hot as it will go. He pulls two of the largest, plushest towels they own from the linen closet and retrieves her dressing gown from the hook on the back of the bathroom door.

"Come on, love. Let's get you warm," he says gently as he returns to her side. Turning back the covers, he holds out his hand for her to take. He closes the bathroom door behind them and she sighs as she feels the warm steam envelop her.

He can tell by her body language, the way she leans heavily into him, that she is not currently capable of doing for herself and so he reaches behind her, undoing the clasp of her bra, tracing his fingertips over her shoulders with slow deliberation as he draws the straps down her arms and then off. She sees the heat in his eyes as they rake over her form appreciatively. Even in her shattered, broken state he is hungry for her. The walls of her sex clench at the knowledge that he wants her and she shivers in anticipation.

He sees it and kneels before her in haste, his thumbs catching in the waistband of her panties and drawing them down her legs. "I'm sorry you're so cold, sweetheart," he tells her, pressing a kiss to each hipbone before standing to his feet and stripping off his shorts.

She shakes her head in the negative as he opens the shower door. "It's not that," she says, looking up at him.

"No?" he asks, his voice laden with intrigue and just a hint of mischief. He offers his hand once more, indicating she should step into the shower and as she does he watches her back up under the spray.

"No," she says earnestly.

"What are ye thinking, Isobel?" he rasps softly in her ear, and she moans at the slip into his brogue. He is so polished, the picture of precision and control in the workaday world and it gives her no small thrill that alone together like this she sees a side of him that no one else knows.

"I want you, Richard," she breathes as he rests a palm on either side of her head against the tile wall of the shower. He has her pinned there, confined, and it's—

"Yesss," she hisses, her eyes slipping shut. He kisses each closed eyelid and her hands clutch at him, fingers pressing hard into the flesh of his back.

"Tell me what ye want, beauty," he murmurs between nips along the line of her jaw. "Tell me what ye need."

Her knees threaten to buckle at his marked inflection and she leans heavily against the tile. He will not push her too far just now, but he is challenging the boundaries she has declared around her heart in the wake of this morning's upheaval.

"I want … I need your hands on me. I need to feel you touching me." She locks eyes with him, hers imploring. "You promised you'd make me forget, Richard. I need to forget." Once more he reads her thoughts.

 _Give me your joy._

"Beautiful woman," he says, his mouth so close to her own that she feels the syllables as much as she hears them. She can take a guess at what he is doing. She can forget the day's hurt surely enough, but it's not enough for him that she should forget. He wants - he _needs_ \- her to remember who she is and what she's made of. "Mine," he declares.

If she were any other woman she would have kicked against this show of apparent possessiveness, but she knows his aim and it is precisely what she needs.

"Yes," she answers, straining toward him, attempting to reach his lips. He backs up a little, out of her reach, and she groans in frustration.

"Isobel," he whispers, "say it."

"Yours."

He sinks a kiss into her mouth at long last and her hands come up, fingers digging into his scalp as they nip at one another's lips. With every kiss a fragment of her soul is rejoined with her body. Her healer is mending the breach.

His hands move to her hips. "Turn," he tells her, and she moves to face the wall with him behind her. _Behind_ her. A frisson of electricity runs the length of her spine and she shudders. He sees it, feels it. "Move with me." He directs her beneath the spray and she laughs.

 _Give me your joy._

"I'm not shivering, darling."

He nibbles her earlobe. "No?"

She shakes her head, leaning back into him. "No. I'm … thinking."

His hands pull her hips back as his own snap forward. "Thinking, eh? About this, perhaps?" One hand moves to the flat plane of her lower abdomen, holding her to him as he grinds softly against her.

"Mm-hmm." She nods, throwing her head back as his hands travel up to cup her breasts, hissing as he rolls her nipples between his fingers.

She circles her hips against his growing arousal. "Yes, Isobel," he murmurs, and she can hear the building strain in his voice. _He wants this. He wants me._ "God, the feel of you …"

She smiles as she moves against him and the wall around her heart begins to give way along with her inhibitions. He rubs the soap over her warm, wet skin and she snakes an arm up and back, her fingers threading into his hair. She was weary; she was finished. Now life is seeping back into her bones, every pore of her skin infused with him.

She pushes back against him like she can't get close enough as his hands move on her body. She wants him everywhere at once. His mouth is hot and open, teeth grazing her shoulder, lips fastening to the side of her neck, marking her. _Yours, I'm yours, just don't stop touching me …_ _ **God**_ _, I'm yours._

His hands on her keep moving, sliding from her hips to her breasts and back and suddenly she is feverishly hot. She reaches behind them to hold his hips against her bottom and he works a hand down over her stomach and lower as he nudges her knees farther apart with his thigh. Slowly he draws the tip of his middle finger along her slit.

"Jesus, Richard … yes … ohh …" He smiles against the back of her neck as he nips her there. Isobel is eloquent when she speaks, except in moments like these. It gives him no small thrill to hear her panting and moaning and uttering nonsense because of him. "Touch me, darling … don't stop … _God!"_ This as he slips a finger inside her, _two_ , and curls them toward her back, pressing up hard. Her hips circle madly as she moves in counterpoint to his rhythm and she feels her sex swell. She throbs, an ache deep inside her, and the writhe of her hips pushes his fingers deeper. "Yes, Richard … harder … more!"

He grins. He _loves_ her like this. He loves her always, but broken down as she is now, reduced to the basest level of want and sensuality she is supremely powerful. "Beautiful, Bel, so beautiful," he croons as his thumb brushes her _just there_.

She throws her head back and moans. The brush of his thumb is so light in contrast to the thrusting of his fingers and it's perfect, so perfect and her breath catches on an inhale.

She stills, quiets, and he knows she's close. "Breathe, darling." He wants her to prolong it until she just can't, wants her completely undone when she shatters.

"God … _can't!_ " she gasps. "It aches! I need to—"

"Shh … you will, precious. Relax … breathe … feel it." He breathes with her as he touches her and she's silent, focused, until the walls of her sex start to clench his fingers and her breathing goes ragged.

"Breathe, beauty, you know you can," he whispers, pressing a kiss by her ear. She breathes with him twice more and then his thumb brushes a slightly different spot and she is gone.

"Richard!" It's all she can say as she breaks, shaking, breathless. He stills his movements, pressing the heel of his hand into her to make it last. He is supporting all of her weight or she would fall to the floor.

She clenches long and hard and wonders, in some far corner of her mind, if she will survive this. _Death by orgasm_ , she thinks, and it makes her laugh.

She has just managed to surpass, in his mind, the most beautiful she'd ever been. _Dear God, the woman laughs when she comes!_ He thinks his heart will burst at the sound of it as he remembers her silent plea.

 _Give me your joy._

He feels her trying to stand on her own as she recovers and he pulls his fingers from her, maneuvering her to the tile bench. He kneels before her and she looks at him, blinking him into focus. Her smile is radiant, her cheeks flushed beautifully pink. He holds her gaze as he sucks his fingers into his mouth, consuming her essence. "Incredible," he murmurs. "You taste like heaven."

She is enthralled by him, his words, his touch, his _want_ of her but she cannot say it yet. Reaching for him she manages, "Richard … hold me."

He lifts her into his lap and her legs wrap around his waist. The hot water cascades over his back as he rests his forehead against hers, caressing her face, the contours of her cheekbones.

For long moments she simply melts into him - she has not come so hard in … quite possibly _ever,_ she thinks, which is saying something with this man, who sees beyond the cut-glass-perfect elocution and fine manicures and accommodating smiles. This man has seen her bloodstained and death-ravaged … and wanton and wild and hungry; euphoric. His hands on her body touch her soul, the healer in him laying her bare, breaking her down and putting her back together stronger, fortified by the love that comes from knowing her entirely.

 _ **Love** him. _ When her mind resumes conscious thought, it is her mantra. Eyes closed, she gropes blindly for his lips, her teeth raking along the bottom one. She plunders his mouth, breathing the breath from his lungs over and over, and it is at once invasive and erotically intimate.

He barks a laugh when her lips release his. He hears her unspoken plea - _Breathe me back to life_ \- and answers her. "Always. _Always_." He is still incredulous that she loves him, wants him, needs him so, for he has never known anyone as competent and capable and strong as she.

She is cupping his chin, wanting his attention. "Stand up, Richard." He lifts her from his lap, watching her long, slender legs unfurl as she stands and offers her hand to him. When he is on his feet her fingers encircle his wrist, her thumb instinctively feeling for his pulse. "May I touch you?" Her eyes, which were so wildly unfocused when she came and mercilessly insistent when she stole his breath, are suddenly innocent almost to the point of shyness.

He shakes his head, incredulous. She is a living, breathing study in contradictions, so delightfully puzzling she makes his head spin. _And she is_ _ **his**_ _._ "Precious woman." He raises their joined hands, pressing hers over his heart. "Please touch me."

Her strong, delicate hands lather his body, cleansing and caressing. When the soap is gone she strokes her hands across his chest, following with her mouth and biting at his nipples. " _Jesus,_ Bel," he gasps and she giggles, a sound that thrills his heart and sends his blood rushing south. He rubs his groin against her thigh and she trails her hand down his abdomen with aching slowness, savoring the feel of the muscles twitching beneath her fingertips. Her fingers enclose him as her other hand rides the curve of his bottom and he hisses, taking her bottom lip between his teeth. He pumps himself into her hand and she watches through half-lidded eyes. _Beautiful, he's beautiful._ His head is thrown back and he is groaning, murmuring about how "bloody good" it feels and cursing under his breath. The first time she came to him he learned that far from upsetting her, his loosened lips thrill her mightily.

Enthralled by the sight and sound of him, she has the nerve to ask cheekily, "Good, love?"

"Woman," he growls, his bright eyes gone dark. He lifts her in his arms and she yelps as her back makes contact with the cold tile wall. His hands grasp her bottom roughly and her legs wrap around his waist as he grinds against her and he buries his face in her neck, sucking at the skin. The wet-hot friction builds the ache inside her to a fever pitch and she pulls his hair, making him meet her eyes.

"In me," she pants, and he rubs his thumb over her kiss-swollen bottom lip.

"Bedroom," he answers, letting her slide down his body until her feet touch the floor. He turns off the water and once again takes her hand as they step out of the shower. He walks her backward toward the bedroom as hastily they work to dry one another and as her calves hit the edge of the mattress she lets herself fall, tugging him along with her. Her hands fall to his hips and he settles between her legs, rubbing the head of him along her swollen folds. "Like this?"

Her hips arch toward him. "Yes! Now … _please!_ "

His eyes hold hers as he pushes forward and her mouth falls open in a soundless cry at the long, hot slide of him into her. She wraps her legs high around his waist and he flexes his hips, bottoming out inside her.

"Stay," she pleads, her voice high and tight, "stay … just stay … just _**ohh**_ _!_ " She draws him down close and pushes her hips up until every inch of their skin touches from shoulders to groin.

"We're one," he gasps, burying his face in the salty-sweet crook of her neck, feeling her nod against him as they savor the moment of their joining.

Her hands grasping at his hips signify that she's ready - _oh, God, so ready, please Richard! -_ for him to move and he takes her lips roughly as he pulls out and then thrusts deep. She arches toward him until her back comes almost entirely off the bed, her fingernails leaving tiny crescent marks in the flesh of his back as she clings desperately to him. She tilts her hips _up, up, up_ until he moves against _that_ place inside her, the one his fingers had found and she babbles senselessly … _Oh, my love, yes, God, yes … I'm yours … So deep, so good my darling._

He pulls out completely, the head of him rubbing against her swollen sex before plunging deep again. She is sleek and soft and hot beneath him, _for_ him and his cries mingle with hers … _Isobel, my beauty, my wife … so tight, so good, the way you move … Yes, my darling … So beautiful, so warm, you feel so good … Come for me,_ _ **hard**_ _, love—_

She does, and it's blindingly brilliant and she crushes her lips against his as her walls clench around him and all the while he moves within her, comes _with_ her, willing her to understand that which he cannot say in words.

 _You're beautiful and warm and whole and here with me. Precious Isobel, my wife, my heart. I love you._

He sinks down upon her, still inside her, kissing her neck and shoulder as she alternately strokes his back and runs her fingers through his hair, fierce clutching and desperate grasping turned soothing and gentle in her satiety. They are silent as they recover, breathing in synchrony as their chests touch.

He speaks first, shifting his weight onto his forearms to look down at her. "Are you warm now, sweet girl?"

She loves his endearments, but this one in particular thrills her and she laughs, nodding as she nuzzles his nose with hers. "Oh, darling, that was wonderful." She kisses him deeply and wiggles her hips, both of them groaning softly at the sensation. "I love this," she whispers, "you inside me. There's nothing like it."

It is he who kisses her now, and when he slips out of her and she sobs he gathers her into his arms. "Shh, beauty … I'm right here. Can you sleep now?"

She blinks at him, here eyelids growing heavy. "Yes, I think so. Richard …" Cupping his chin in the space between her thumb and forefinger, she looks at him with such sincerity that his breath catches. "I love you. So very much and I …" She is caught short of words. _Thank you_ flashes through her mind, and _you always know just what I need,_ but they all seem so inadequate.

But her eyes tell him all that she cannot.

 _You've taken my sorrow. You've given me unspeakable joy._

Tomorrow she will see Ethel, and her heart will break a little for the circumstances. He will see the baby, and he'll release him into the care of his foster family. While she will never agree, she will come to understand in time. Every mother wants the best for her child, and sometimes what is best and what is ideal are worlds apart.

But now she sleeps, and when later on she wakes with him half-hard and pressed against her bottom, she awakens him with messy, sleepy kisses and moves atop him, slipping him inside her. It is slower and sweeter this time, silent and sensuous as their haze reduces everything to sensation, the point of contact. Her hips roll lazily as his mouth bathes her breasts and she falls into him as she comes. He is right behind her, flooding her with warmth deep within. The only words spoken are whispered—

 _I love you._

As she curls into Richard's side, she thinks that understanding may be coming to her now, in dribs and drabs, bit by bit. Her husband died, and then her son, and the script she had followed all her life changed in a heartbeat. And she supposes Ethel had likely written a script of her own at one time, and that choice and circumstance had rewritten some of the lines against her wishes.

But Richard and Isobel found their way to one another in an unexpected plot twist. She found her happy ending, her better story. And so, she supposes, will Ethel in time. Time does not deaden the pain of loss, but it brings with it grace and strength.

She will smile when next she sees Ethel, and it will be sincere. Strong women bear up under strain and share one another's burdens. And she can do this, _will_ do this, because in the arms of the man she loves, who loves _her_ , she has shed her sorrow. She has found her joy.

' **Cause we know how this ends  
** **We know there's a better story  
** **-** **Sara Groves, "Rewrite This Tragedy"**


	4. Beautiful

**A/N: Encouraged by the response of my friends to my modern take on Richard and Isobel, I've picked this fic back up again. And in the spirit of telling the story my heart loves, I've endeavored with this chapter to do something that has been long on my mind. I am a huge fan of the American medical drama _House, MD_ _,_ and I've always seen something of a parallel between Isobel and _House's_ Dr. Lisa Cuddy. In its sixth season, _House_ did an episode entitled _5 to 9,_ the premise of which was a day in the life of Lisa Cuddy. I have always wanted to present a similar vignette of a day in Isobel's life. Including it in this fic, at this juncture, just felt _right_ to me. I know it's a bit longer than previous chapters and I hope that you find it enjoyable and not a bore. I've chosen _Beautiful_ as the title of this chapter as the Carole King song seems, to me, like an anthem for Isobel.**

 **As always, reviews are a treasure.**

 **xx,  
~ejb~**

* * *

 _You've got to get up every morning with a smile on your face  
And show the world all the love in your heart  
Then people gonna treat you better  
You're gonna find, yes, you will  
_ _That you're beautiful as you feel_

 _-Carole King, "Beautiful"_

 **oOoOo**

Her day begins early, the alarm clock jarring the two of them from sleep before the first wisps of dawn color the horizon. She gropes for it in vain as it clamours incessantly.

"Oh, damn and blast! Where've you gone?" she cries.

A warm hand covers her shoulder. "Isobel … easy, love." He locates the source of her frustration and silences it swiftly, and it's then that he takes in the vision before him: Isobel, sprawled on her stomach on his side of the bed, bare beneath the sheet which only covers her from the hips down. He grins. _Oh, but she looks—_

Levering up on her forearms to look at him, she scowls. "Honestly, Richard, close your mouth! Have you no manners?"

Smiling again, he rolls her over and, gently pinning her wrists to the pillow, covers her mouth with his. He hums against her lips when she deepens the kiss, settling his weight on top of her. "Mmmm …" he answers her as they break apart, "didn't think I needed them where you were concerned. Good morning."

She blinks up at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she smiles. "Good morning," she whispers breathily, "at least, I hope it will be." She pulls him down with a hand at the nape of his neck and his lips find the soft juncture where her neck and shoulder meet.

"You know you're going to make it through today." His breath is hot on her skin as he speaks.

She hums her acknowledgement as she runs her hands over his back. "Or I could beg off. Stay here …" She turns her head and catches his lips in a kiss, "... in bed …" She holds his hips, kissing him again, more deeply this time, "... with you."

He laughs, pecking her lightly on the nose. "Now that sounds like the perfect Saturday." He peppers her shoulders and the tops of her breasts with kisses. "But it's not for today, and it isn't _you._ You've never begged off a day in your life."

"Yeah," she sighs, going quiet. He ceases exploring the hollows of her collarbones when he feels her stiffen and rolls them over so that she straddles his lap.

"Oi." He lifts her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "When do you see her?"

"Won't be till afternoon. I've office hours all morning. Shame I can't get it out of the way straight off."

"Hmm," he agrees. "Can you leave her for last then? Come to me after? I'm in the office from half past one."

She smiles softly, her chin lifting in a slight nod. "Alright then."

"We'll go to dinner. Anywhere you like." He smooths his hands over her shoulders and winds a strand of hair around his fingers.

"Someplace quiet. I fancy not having to bother with cooking or washing up, but what I'd like best of all is solitude."

"Of course, darling. I know just the place." He pulls her in close. She leans her forehead against his shoulder and loses herself for a few glorious moments in the warmth of his embrace, the still, sure susurrations of their breathing.

"Oh, Richard …" she sighs. He feels the weight that settles upon her, hears her unspoken thoughts. Will ever there come a day when she emerges from the spectre of her son's death? Is it now _de rigeur_ that cases like Ethel's will strike her as a personal affront? In her grief, has she lost the objectivity needed to fulfill her oath?

"Isobel," he says, gently but firmly breaking through her thoughts. "Today is today. You'll get by one hour at a time. One minute at a time if that's what it comes to. And then you'll be through it and we'll sort all the rest. I shouldn't try to carry that mantle, alright? Not today, and not alone."

"Yes," she answers, setting her jaw. "Right." She knows what's coming; what he's going to do and that he must do it and that he hates it, but it's what is best for her. She squares her shoulders, holds her breath, waits for the inevitable.

"Go on then, love. You shower first; I'll fix the coffee." The arms that pulled her to him now hold her out and away. This is his least favorite part of marriage: taking a hard line with her. His eyes when she looks at him do not waver, but he wills her to read the truth in them: _You know I love you._

She looks away, then back at him, then away again. "Suppose it's useless to ask you to join me then." The corners of her mouth turn up, just barely. She knows.

He stands, pulling her to her feet. "Isobel …" he begins.

She smiles again, a bit sadly. "Can't blame a girl for trying." She starts to walk away. He watches, his eyes drawn to her bare form retreating, and calls out to her.

"Oi." She looks up from the lavatory doorway. "Later. Yeah?"

This time when she smiles it reaches her eyes. She nods and turns round, shutting the door.

 **oOoOo**

Her day is off and running the minute she reaches the office. Hers are the patients whose experiences of pregnancy and childbirth are not straightforward; textbook pregnancies are always followed by midwives, so the pace and tenor of her workplace is seldom light.*

She sees two antenatal patients with gestational diabetes, one with epilepsy and another with a heart anomaly before ten o'clock. These are routine, insomuch as they can be, but the nature of these types of visits consists of little talk of the joy of carrying new life. Instead the focus leans toward the maudlin, with warnings detailing the likely outcome if great care is not taken and referrals for further testing. She tries - _has always tried_ \- to infuse hope into the visits, to spend at least a few minutes talking about the expected little one. She was, herself, an expectant mother at high risk once, and she knows the value of a smile, a little extra time taken to listen and to reassure.

By 10:30 she's dragging and glad of the half hour break that comes her way. The first thing she does is dash to the loo. Her reflection in the mirror as she washes her hands gives her pause.

"My God, when did I get so bloody _old?_ " she remarks aloud to the empty lavatory. She touches the fine lines at the corners of her mouth, her eyes. "Damn," she whispers ruefully. As she runs a hand through her hair she scowls and makes a mental note to phone her stylist. She fluffs her fringe with a hairbrush to hide the grey and squints, giving herself the once-over.

That's when she sees it. As she tugs on the neck of her blouse it moves aside, exposing a deep red mark just above the ridge of her collarbone.

"Richard," she murmurs, tracing the bruise with the tips of her fingers. It's an exact match to the shape of his mouth, and her memory flashes on last night; the feel of that mouth as he sucked on her neck, the curves of her shoulders, her breasts. The sound of his voice as he said her name, and the way she laughed when her touch made him curse. The blue of his eyes as he pinned her against the shower wall, and later as he held her wrists above her head and moved inside her. He'd promised he would make her forget the nightmare of a day she had yesterday. He had delivered in spades.

Her body begins to react and she grins when she looks into the mirror again, seeing a very different woman this time. She feels hot; a flush has colored her cheeks. Her nipples are tender and her bra suddenly feels restrictive. She presses her thighs together as her body tightens delightfully … she'll have quite a task now getting through the rest of the day, and tonight he will pay for getting her into such a state.

"Lord," she chuckles. If Richard could see her now! She gasps as it occurs to her what a dangerous track her thoughts have taken. If he were here the lavatory would be locked, her clothes flung unceremoniously over a stall door. Her thighs would be draped over his shoulders, his hands shielding her bum from the cold granite countertop whilst he moved between her legs.

Shaking her head at her unprofessional behavior, she emerges from the lavatory, pops to the coffee stand in the lobby and orders a large iced coffee, black. She gets into the lift, thankful for the solitude, and presses the cold cup against her cheeks as she tries to set her mind on the work she needs to get done. Four more patients to see here, then it's on to the hospital and a fresh round of hell. She isn't scheduled for surgery today, but there's a chance one of her upcoming patients will need to be delivered in short order.

And then there is Ethel.

Her shoulders tense as she considers what lies ahead. There was a time she would look upon the tableau of such a day with eagerness, practically daring challenges to take her on.

That was a different time. She was a different woman then, as yet untouched by the loss of her son. She has saved many lives in the course of her career, but she couldn't save the one that meant the world to her. Perhaps her time would be better spent, at this juncture, investing in the lives of those she couldn't do without. She dreams with increasing frequency of walking away from the pressures of medicine, of the city, and hunkering down in the countryside with those she loves.

 **oOoOo**

Her heavy heart lifts the instant she opens her office door. Sat in the middle of her desk is a huge vase full of daffodils, their delicate fragrance filling the room.

"Gwen," she calls out to the receptionist, "did you see who left these?"

The redhead appears in the doorway. "Courier brought them by, ma'am," she answers. "The handwriting could only be Dr. Clarkson's."

Isobel fingers the bright petals, picking up the envelope in their midst. "Of course it is," she says. When she opens the card inside, she gasps.

"I take it he did well then?" Gwen says with a smile. She delights in the love between her boss and the handsome Scots neonatologist. Dr. Crawley has always been kind and fair, a dream to work for, but she has absolutely come alive since marrying Dr. Clarkson.

"Oh, he's outdone himself this time," Isobel remarks. Turning toward the redhead she tells her, "Now that's the sort of man you ought to look out for, Miss." They share a giggle. "Excuse me, would you? I believe I owe the good doctor a telephone call."

"Certainly, ma'am," Gwen says and takes her leave. Isobel pulls out her cell phone and dials Richard.

" _Hello, beauty. How's your morning?"_ At once she is glad of the fact that she's sat down. His burr has made her knees go weak.

"Richard! The flowers! It was perfect timing, sweetheart. And the note! —"

He cuts in:

" _I wandered lonely as a cloud  
_ _That floats on high o'er vales and hills,  
_ _When all at once I saw a crowd,  
_ _A host, of golden daffodils;  
_ _Beside the lake, beneath the trees,  
_ _Fluttering and dancing in the breeze."_

"Oh, darling," she interjects teasingly, "I think I need my fainting couch!"

He laughs at her, and she pictures the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. She closes her eyes to listen as he continues:

" _Continuous as the stars that shine  
_ _And twinkle on the milky way,  
_ _They stretched in never-ending line  
_ _Along the margin of a bay:  
_ _Ten thousand saw I at a glance,  
_ _Tossing their heads in sprightly dance._

 _The waves beside them danced; but they  
_ _Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:  
_ _A poet could not but be gay,  
_ _In such a jocund company:  
_ _I gazed—and gazed—but little thought  
_ _What wealth the show to me had brought:"_

She recites the final stanza with him:

" _For oft, when on my couch I lie  
_ _In vacant or in pensive mood,  
_ _They flash upon that inward eye  
_ _Which is the bliss of solitude;  
_ _And then my heart with pleasure fills,  
_ _And dances with the daffodils."*_

"Wordsworth," she says softly. "My favorite. I needed that today. Thank you." She goes quiet for a moment as she swipes at tears.

" _It's my pleasure,"_ he tells her. _"So, is that what you fancy? A field full of daffodils?"_

She leans back in her chair and her eyes slip closed again. "Mm-hmm. And to sit beside the stream with the sun on my face … and my head in your lap."

" _Ah ha!"_ She can see the mischievous twinkle in his eye. _"You know I can't say no to that. I do love the way your hands wander. And your mouth—"_

She cuts him off. "Richard! Please tell me you're alone!"

He laughs again, a deep, roaring bellow. _"Cor, woman! In my office; door locked. Why, have you got something to share with the class?"_

He's made her forget all about the endless cycle of difficult cases, the junior doctors' strike, the fact that she dreads the hospital. She clears her throat, speaking conspiratorially. "As a matter of fact, I do. I couldn't help but notice that I've got a souvenir to remember last night by. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

" _Have you now?"_ She's certain she can _hear_ the grin in his voice _. "What can I say? You've delectable collarbones."_

"Well you might've _said_ something! It's purely by accident that my blouse hides it at all. If I didn't know better, I'd swear you _wanted_ people to see it."

The silence on the other end of the line speaks volumes.

" _Richard!_ You're horrible, you know." She giggles. She still can't believe that it's like this with him; so _easy._ He takes her tears and frustration as much in stride as her laughter and lightness, and he is unfazed if she runs the entire gamut in a single conversation.

" _Funny,"_ he answers, _"that's not what you were saying last night. Or this morning, for that matter."_

She hoots with laughter, taking a long moment to regain her composure. "Ohh, love," she sighs. Her sides hurt and she doesn't want to ring off, doesn't ever want this moment to end. "I don't suppose there's any chance of clearing your calendar, is there? Want to come over?"

" _Why's that, Captain?"_

She looks around as if afraid of someone overhearing, which is preposterous considering she's in her own private office. "I miss you, Major. I know I must sound silly saying it, but I do."

" _We're still on for dinner, aren't we? This isn't you calling to say you've had a better offer?"_

He gets her to laugh again. "No! I'll meet you at yours, alright? I can't wait."

" _Likewise, beautiful girl. Hospital's not bad today, at least not from where I'm standing, but if you get hung up, just say. Listen, I've got to go scrub in now …"_

"Of course. I've got one coming in at eleven anyhow. I just wanted to thank you for the flowers, love. You made my day."

He lowers his voice in that manner of his that indicates he's about to say something that will stay with her always. _"You make mine every morning I wake up next to you, Isobel."_

She can feel tears threatening, and she swallows hard around the lump in her throat. "Lovely man," she murmurs. "I won't keep you any longer. Go save lives, eh?"

" _Yeah, wish me luck, will you? Got twins coming up. Thirty weeks; IUGR* with a partial abruption."_

She groans. "Whose patient?"

" _Tapsell's."_ She can hear him cringe.

Her ire is up. "That man ought to have had his license revoked years ago! Truly, Richard!"

" _You're telling me."_

"Well, those little ones are in the best hands possible. You don't need it, but such good luck, Major."

" _Thanks. I love you, sweet girl. Keep smiling, eh?"_

"For you? Always. Love you."

She rings off and spends the next several minutes sat at her desk completing patient charts with the stereo playing softly as she hums along. If all her days were like this moment, she thinks she could keep going forever.

 **oOoOo**

At eleven she rises from her desk and puts on her lab coat. It feels like putting on armor, she muses. She takes one final breath as Isobel Clarkson, Richard's besotted wife. Glancing at the clock, she does a quick calculation in her head. Five and a half hours more and she'll be with him, assuming all goes according to plan. _Keep smiling,_ he'd said. Drawing another breath, she affects the persona of Dr. Crawley once more, plastering a smile on her face as she shuts her office door.

Her next two appointments are a Type I diabetic and a cystic fibrosis patient, and she reminds herself that in diligently following them she is doing her part to ensure that their babies do not suffer the fate of the twins whose delivery Richard dreads. Unlike Philip Tapsell, Isobel will not allow her ethics to be clouded by renown, and though her own arms are empty she is determined that nothing will separate the expectant mothers in her care from their infants for as long as she continues to practice.

Just prior to her third of four appointments, the charge nurse phones her from the hospital. Only twenty-four hours post-surgery, Ethel Parks is demanding her release, citing the need to return to work. Isobel advises the nurses to sit tight and phones up the doctor on call, explaining the case and asking him to hold Ethel off until she gets there. She is livid, and reining in her anger before the arrival of the next patient takes every ounce of her resolve.

It's at that moment that her phone lights up with a text message from Richard.

 _Out of surgery. Baby A - 2 lbs 13. Baby B - 2 lbs 8. Both stable on CPAP. Mother bled out; condition critical. X, R_

She takes a moment to reply.

 _Good show, Maj. Heard from the ward - E thinks she's going home. Something tells me I'm in for a long afternoon. X, Bel_

His news serves to quell her fury. She is relieved to hear that the babies are stable for the moment. They are in for a hell of a fight, but it bodes well that neither requires a ventilator. The next time she and Richard are both on shift together, she will ask him to take her to see them.

Her next patient has suffered from chronic hypertension for years. Her blood pressure has been well controlled for the duration of her pregnancy, but now, at 33 weeks, it is beginning to rise. Isobel orders strict bed rest and fetal non-stress testing and increases the dosage of the antihypertensive the young woman has been taking. The goal is to make it to 35 weeks, at which point the baby's lungs will have reached maturity. There is no need to deliver today, but Isobel will see her again two days from now and reassess.

The final appointment is a post-discharge follow-up with a patient whose delivery had been complicated by preeclampsia. She is five days postpartum now and her pressure is stabilizing. Her newborn son is with her and as the visit draws to a close he begins to fuss.

"Easy, love," the woman soothes, rocking the carrier where it sits on the floor. "Mummy's nearly finished." But the babe doesn't settle, and as his snuffling becomes a full-fledged wail, Isobel observes the tightening of his mother's shoulders. This won't do. She needs to keep calm or she risks her pressure rising again. Then again, she ought not have come out alone, but Isobel understands. Life goes on after the baby is born; husbands return to work, and many women do not have the luxury of help nearby.

The baby screams. "You're alright, son," the mother says, her tone of voice belying her frustration. She looks furtively at Isobel. "I'm sorry, Dr. Crawley."

"Nonsense," Isobel replies, "we're through here. You're progressing well. We'll send your prescriptions to the chemist's, and I'll see you again at two weeks postpartum." As she gives these instructions, she watches her patient and can see that the woman's attentions are divided. She puts a hand on the woman's forearm, and their eyes meet. Isobel looks toward the carrier. "May I?"

The woman nods and Isobel watches as her posture relaxes. She releases the buckle and lifts the tiny boy from the carrier, laying him in the crook of her arm. "There, there, darling," she croons, swaying gently. To the mother, she says, "I think he's grown already!"

The woman smiles. "He ought to have done," she says, "all he does is eat."

Isobel settles the baby against her shoulder and sits down in the chair beside his mother's. "And how's that going? Do you think your milk is in?"

Her patient shrugs. "I think so," she says hesitantly. "First time and all … I can't say for sure. The nurses in hospital said to feed him every hour to hour and a half round the clock and I have done."

Isobel nods. She likes this, the relaxed, easy rapport; conversing casually. Holding the baby. It feels right, with his head tucked in against her neck, the warm weight of his tiny body against her shoulder.

"In time, you'll sense when it feels right," she tells the younger woman, casting her memory back. It isn't decades of clinical expertise from which she speaks now; it is from her own experience as a new mother many years ago. "They tell you in hospital that by the time you're discharged, your milk will be in and you'll feel it let down thirty seconds after the baby latches on, and it serves to frighten mothers more than help, I think.

"You've never done this before, and the fact is that it takes time. I remember my own son was two weeks old before I ever felt my milk let down, and here I was a doctor, and married to one as well! As much as my husband reassured me that everything was fine, I was certain I was starving our baby!"

The mother nods and a small smile crosses her face. "I lie awake whilst he's sleeping and wonder whether I'm doing right by him," she admits.

"And that won't do," Isobel replies. "Particularly as you recover from preeclampsia. Do you have help at home?" This is when she hates working for the great bureaucracy that is NHS. It's all well and good to tell a patient that they _should_ have support at home. But ideal situations exist so very rarely, and to hold a new mother up to such a standard is to practically guarantee she feels a failure.

Isobel sees her patient's stricken expression and lays a hand on her forearm. "You're not in trouble. I'm asking because it's critical to your own healing that you rest as much as possible. In an ideal world, you'd have been accompanied here, and you'd not be left alone at all for the first two weeks or lift anything heavier than the baby himself for a month. But no one that I know lives like that. It simply isn't practical!"

The younger woman relaxes. "My husband took two days, but he had to go back to work. My mum's coming in at the weekend. She'd planned to be here for the birth, but he came early, as you know, and I've a couple siblings still at home. Until then I've been showering before my husband leaves in the mornings, and letting him take the baby for a couple of hours when he gets home so I can sleep. It's the best we can do, Dr. Crawley."

She looks at the young woman with softness in her eyes. "Of course it is." She pauses; thinks; offers a little peace of mind. "I don't typically do this, but we could weigh him if you like," she says. "Paediatrics wants to see them regain their birthweight by one week. By the look of him I'm almost certain that he has, but if it'll put your mind at ease …"

The mother nods. "Could you?" The mix of hope and trepidation in her eyes causes Isobel's stomach to lurch. She _was_ this mother just yesterday, it seems; frantically spinning her wheels attempting to keep her newborn alive whilst healing from a traumatic birth. The bond between her heart and Matthew's was forged in moments like these, and just like this young woman, she had promised her son the world.

And now only she remains.

She shivers at the thought, shaking back to reality. In this moment, she has the power to strengthen the bond between another mother and son.

She undresses the baby, cooing to him reassuringly as he protests the cold air. When she lays him on the scale they discover that he's done more than regain his birthweight; he's exceeded it by three ounces! She reports the good news to his mother and her own heart swells as she sees the expression on the younger woman's face.

"It's alright to say it," Isobel encourages.

Her patient smiles. "That's my boy!"

 **oOoOo**

It is with a peculiar mixture of triumph, pain, and exhaustion that she concludes her morning. She is thoroughly spent already, and the hardest part of the day still looms.

Her head is spinning as she makes the drive across town to the hospital. Change has got to come; she has lost the critical ability to separate her professional persona from the personal and herself from the job. Richard's words echo in her mind: _Today is today. You'll get by one hour at a time. One minute at a time if that's what it comes to. And then you'll be through it and we'll sort all the rest._

Glancing at the clock on the dash as she enters the car park, she updates her calculation: three hours, seventeen minutes until she can leave this place, make the five-minute drive to his office and be in his arms.

 _Roll on, four thirty._

 **oOoOo**

 _I have often asked myself the reason for the sadness  
In a world where tears are just a lullaby  
If there's any answer, maybe love can end the madness  
Maybe not, oh, but we can only try_

* * *

 ***I've done my best, as an American, to understand and properly represent the manner in which the NHS handles pregnancy and childbirth. So far as I can tell, unless a woman has an underlying health condition or a fetal anomaly, she is followed and delivered by midwives. Obstetricians manage those with chronic illnesses and birth complications. This is Isobel's specialty.**

 ***I have a thing for Isobel and daffodils. The poem is _I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud_ by William Wordsworth.**

 ***IUGR - Intrauterine growth retardation (UK); Intrauterine growth restriction (US). A condition wherein a fetus is small for gestational age due to maternal illness; namely, high blood pressure, heart, kidney, or lung disease, or exposure to toxins.**

 *****I am NOT a medical professional. I _am_ a mum with extensive experience as a high-risk OB patient. Forgive any errors ... while thorough in my research, I am, ultimately, human.**


End file.
